


"My face became all eyes, and my eyes all hands"

by canyouseemyspark



Series: Dorne [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Related, F/M, Falling In Love, Minor Character(s), Prompt Fic, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canyouseemyspark/pseuds/canyouseemyspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "She's supposed to marry Trystane, but it's Quentyn who she falls in love with."</p>
            </blockquote>





	"My face became all eyes, and my eyes all hands"

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Quentyn doesn't get sent on the quest for Dany's hand.

There was something intoxicating about the curve of his lips, the short eyelashes that framed his brown deep-set eyes, the lines of his square jaw.

To most, he had the kind of face that could be easily forgotten after an initial glance. But when Myrcella looked at him, she saw the man who stayed by her bedside when she was healing from her injury (when she had lost her use to Arianne and when Trystane couldn't stand to look at the wounds), the man who read to her from a rather embarrassing story book she had brought with her from King's Landing, the first face she saw when the maester finally removed her bandages. She saw in him her lover, the man who was walking around with a piece of her heart in his.

Trystane was the more handsome of the two, it could not be denied.

He had been a sweet child, had been the pet of the family, constantly coddled and spoiled. When she first came to Dorne, he had been her very first friend. He was so quick to smile and so willing to play. Perhaps most importantly, he was so very different from Joffrey (always angry, always wicked) and Tommen (a baby who still played with dolls and kittens), from any one at King's Landing truly. She supposed she did love him somewhat in her own childish way, supposed that part of her would always love him for his friendship, for all those days they spent together beneath the Dornish sun, talking across a cyvasse table.

He had grown into quite a handsome lad, even she could see that. To a stranger's eyes, he could have passed for Arianne's twin instead of her younger brother. They shared the same beautiful black hair, the same large dark eyes, the same beautiful olive skin. However, Trystane was tall and broad while she was short and petite. He was charming and good-natured, a maiden's dream.

Perhaps if she was born a different woman, she could have loved him, could have blushed and smiled like all the other girls at court when he spoke to her. Long ago, she had learned that a handsome husband did not make a happy marriage. Her father had been handsome once, even Cersei said so when she wasn't cross with him, but Myrcella still remembered the bruises on her mother's arms, the shrieks and screams that came from their chambers. Uncle Jaime was handsome too, half the women at court mooned after him despite his white cloak, but he always made Myrcella uneasy, always japed in that cruel way of his that as a child made her cry. Uncle Tyrion, the one they called the Imp, was the best one of them all and yet from the whispers at King's Landing, it seemed that he could not get a woman unless he paid for her.

There was no depravity beneath Trystane's beauty. He was gentle by nature, incapable of hurting those around him not from a sense of sympathy but from his own passivity, his apathy towards the events and individuals in his life. But indifference could be as cruel as wickedness.

She had tried, truly tried to love Trystane.

It was a year ago when they were at the shore and he was diving into the water with a group of young men from his entourage, collecting the rocks and shells from the sea floor. Myrcella could see the way the other women were looking at him, even her own cousin Rosamund seemed on the verge of ecstasy when he emerged from the water, the water shining off the muscles of his shoulders and chest.

And yet she felt nothing.

She approached him then, could feel their jealous eyes boring into the back of her head.

“Trys, come join me for a walk,” She cooed, twirling her hair between her fingers.

She felt like quite the fool, teasing him like some silly girl but he shrugged amiably and took her hand, following her down the shore to the caves at the bottom of the cliffs. She had discovered them during her first few weeks at the Water Gardens when she and Trystane were searching for oysters and purple crabs but this time she had a different plan in mind.

She thought that if they could get past their polite exchanges, their relationship that never went past childish hand-holding, she could perhaps see in him what those other girls see, could possibly glimpse a deeper part of him beyond his affable, hollow demeanor.

A bit more harshly than she intended, she pushed him up against the wall and pressed her lips to his. A bewildered look crossed his face and suddenly he was grinning. Another girl would have been excited by his enthusiasm but in a strange way, it annoyed her. _Is this really all there is to him?_

She stepped away, easily undoing the knots in her simple silk gown and letting it drop to the floor.

He wet his lips. Despite the scar which ran across the right side of her face, Myrcella knew she was still one of the most beautiful women in Prince Doran's court. She tried to hide her deformity when she was younger, wearing elaborate veils and purchasing expensive powders from the Free Cities to cover it. As she got older, as her breasts started growing, her curves rounding out, she started to notice that instead of pity and sympathy, she could see desire flashing in the eyes of the men at court. She threw away the veils then, giving the powder to Rosamund, and with the help of Arianne, began wearing the revealing Dornish gowns and styling her hair so as to reveal her neck, her shoulders, her chest and back.

She pressed her lips against his and he responded with a strangled moan that almost made her want to laugh, grabbing her breasts with his hands. His kisses were too wet, too fervid, and the awkward almost painful way that he touched her nipples made Myrcella suspect that she might be the first woman he had been with.

It wasn't very surprising. Trystane approached women with the same lackadaisical way he did most things in life. Many of the girls were intimidated by Myrcella and admired Trystane from afar, not willing to make enemies of the little lioness, Cersei Lannister's daughter, whether they themselves were vipers or not. And Trystane was too passive to chase after them, indolent in the way second sons sometimes were, in the way she imagined Tommen would be had Joffrey lived, had he been raised at Casterly Rock instead of King's Landing, had their family not been quite so dysfunctional.

Discreetly, she opened her eyes to watch as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, as his face flushed with desire. Even now with his hardness pressing against her waist through his breeches, with his fingers circling around her nipples, she felt no desire, no lust pulsing through her body.

She pulled away, abruptly breaking the kiss. He reached for her, grabbing her arm to pull her back into his embrace but she sighed and pushed him back.

That same crooked grin was on his face as he adjusted the swelling in his pants and waited for her to put her gown back on, before taking her arm and leading her out to the join their companions on the shore.

_One day we may be content together but in love we will never be._

With Quentyn, it was different.

She did not have to touch him to know that she loved him. She had known it for years, had known it even as a child. When he was knighted by Lord Yronwood and came back to the Water Gardens to live with his family, Myrcella noticed how he would wake up early in the mornings while the rest of the palace slept and sit by the pools, huddled over a stack of books and papers. In the weeks and months following her injury when she was restless from the discomfort of her wound and unable to sleep, she would go sit beside him. He was surprised when appeared the first few times but when he realized it was becoming a regular occurrence, he would bring a children's book or some paints for her to busy herself with while he worked.

Most of the time they sat silently, and she would watch him as he read or drafted letters for his father. 

It was only when she reached her fifteenth year that she noticed he began to watch her as well.

The first time they kissed was after her sixteenth name-day celebration, when Trystane was in his cups with Perros Blackmont and Quentyn escorted her back to her chambers. He gave her a beautiful bracelet, a coiled golden snake, and to his surprise (and hers) she found herself pressing her lips to his, softly at first until she noticed he was kissing her back, even opening his mouth so she push her tongue inside. She desperately wanted to push her body against his, to feel her breasts rise and fall against his chest but they heard footsteps coming around the corner and suddenly they were apart and Quentyn was hurrying to his chambers.

To Myrcella, it did not feel like deceit.

Trystane would never notice and even if he was told, even if he saw it with his own eyes, he would likely not mind. He was like Arianne in that way, always willing to share what he loved with those he loved, not understanding that Myrcella did not want to be shared, that she wanted someone who would want her for his own, who wanted to possess her truly and fully and who she would possess in return.

Quentyn, who knew his brother better than any man, seemed to agree.

From then on, he walked her to her room every night, kissed her beneath her doorway until the kisses turned into touches and the touches turned to fire and Myrcella grabbed him by the waist and pulled him into her bed.

Perhaps she was emboldened by the knowledge that she was living on borrowed time here in Dorne. After her near-crowning, she had come to understand that her marriage to Trystane would never come to fruition, that the enmity between their houses could not be wiped out by anything but blood. As all of Westeros raged in turmoil around them, as talk started to grow of dragons and fire, of a silver queen come to reclaim her throne, Myrcella was only another piece in the game who could be wiped out at any moment.

What good was a maidenhead then when she could be sent back to King's Landing at any moment? What use was worrying about betraying her betrothed when he was never meant to become her husband? What was the fault in holding onto the love she could find while she still could?

On this night he was lying beside her, asleep on his stomach. Usually he came to her bed after dining; they would make love once or twice and then they would fall asleep together and wake up at dawn, when he would return to his own rooms.

She knew that she should let him sleep, that he hated being tired when he broke his fast with his father in the morning but they only had a few more hours together so she leaned in and placed a kiss on the small of his back. He did not stir so she moved her lips up a few inches before kissing him again. She saw his nose twitching softly so she began to litter kisses all over his back until he turned around, a sheepish grin on his face and his eyes still heavy from sleep. Before he could chastise her, telling her how badly he needed his rest, she put her hands on either side of his face and and pressed a rough, wet kiss on his lips, pulling away with a loud smack that always made him laugh.

He turned fully towards her, letting the silk blanket that had been covering his naked form fall to the ground, and put her mouth to hers once again, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her close to him.

In the beginning she had been surprised that this quiet young man who appeared to prefer his studies to the company of women could set her skin alight with his kisses. Before they made love for the first time, when he would only kiss her outside her doorway, she would go to her bed alone, undress beneath the covers and find her pleasure with her own fingers before she could finally fall asleep.

He moved his tongue against hers slowly, methodically until Myrcella was frantically grasping at his hair and pressing her body against his. He bit carefully at her lips, sucking softly on her bottom lip. In response, Myrcella lay down on her back and spread her legs. It was rather wanton and she knew that she would be embarrassed by her brazenness when she thought back on it in the morning but in that moment she wanted so badly to feel him inside her, to be a part of him before the sun rose and he returned to his chambers leaving her bed cold and empty.

"You're so cold," he whispered as his mouth moved to her neck, to her collarbone, to her breasts.

"Keep me warm, then."

She took him into her hands and guided him in-between her thighs, where he entered her softly, gently as always. She arched her back in response, pressing her lips against his so that he was inside her twofold, his tongue exploring her mouth as she tightened and pulsated against his length. 

He closed his eyes and groaned in ecstasy, moving his right hand down to grip her hip while the other trailed to her breast, caressing her nipple expertly. Trystane had been so rough, pinching the sensitive skin so tightly she almost yelped in pain. Quentyn moved slowly, alternating between tender grazes to firmer contact as though he were a part of her, as though he could feel what she felt. 

She felt herself on the edge of her release but held herself back. When they first starting making love, they would move almost frantically to their respective orgasms. With time, they had learned to prolong it, come to understand that sometimes the process could be as good as the end result. 

"Do you want to switch?" She asked, biting her lip to keep the groan from escaping her lips.

He moaned, almost growled in response, and slipped out of her. There was a strange sweetness to their parting, a pleasure that rushed through her body at the feel of him moving inside her, but a sudden sadness that they were no longer joined. She moved to get on her hands and knees, intending for him to enter her from behind, when he suddenly reached out and grabbed her arm.

"Not like this, I want to see your face," He murmured, his face flushed and sweat glistening off his body.

_I could die in this very moment, they could march me into King's Landing and lop off my head, and it will all have been worth it._

She threw herself at him, almost attacking him with her lips, as he grabbed her small hips into his hands and positioned her on top of him. She moved slowly, resting her hands on his chest for balance, watching as he sighed and moaned, spurring on her own pleasure. When he began to whisper her name, when his eyes trailed over her mound, her breasts, her face, dripping with desire, she began to move at an erratic pace, her head lolling backwards and forwards, her curls falling over her face. 

He began to knead at her thighs with his hands, working his thumbs slowly towards her nub and pressing down, teasing it as he teased her nipples, until she heard herself scream like a madwoman, her legs twitching and seizing around him. She could feel his release in hers, could feel him spill his seed inside her until she collapsed on his chest, exhausted and drained.

He moved his hands away from her mound, knowing how painful it was for her to be touched there now, and instead used his fingers to trace the curve of her lips. Perhaps she should feel embarrassed, that she could taste herself on his thumbs, that she enjoyed that strange saltiness, but she could never manage to be ashamed while she was with him.

She softly bit his fingers, sending a brusque laugh from his throat. 

"Do you think we'll be in love forever?" she whispered against his ear.

She could feel him smile as he tightened his embrace around her and she knew the answer.


End file.
